


In the Games of Love and War

by WritingQuill



Series: Prompts et al [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Unilock, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been addicted to Skyrim, playing it at every chance he got, and Sherlock is having none of it. Hilarity and sexytimes ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Games of Love and War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Divine_shot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Divine_shot/gifts).



> Long overdue prompt fill for [divine-shot](http://divine-shot.tumblr.com/), who asked for "anything with Sherlock playing and/or designing video games against John and the two distracting each other with groping/touching/etc..." - I went a bit off the script here, but hopefully you'll like it :) 
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about video games, which is why this is a bit vague.

Sherlock hummed as he awoke from his sleep, scratched his left eye which was always itchy in the morning, and reached out to touch John who was— 

John, who apparently had not come to bed after he arrived from his shift at the hospital last night. 

With a huff, Sherlock opened his eyes fully and looked over the bed. John’s side was unwrinkled, cold, exactly the same as it had been when Sherlock went to sleep the night before. The door of the bedroom was open, though, and John’s trousers were folded on top of the chair next to the wardrobe, which meant that he at least _had_ returned home after his shift, but also that he had deliberately not woken Sherlock _and_ left the bedroom after changing. This could only mean one thing. 

Sherlock got up, draped his dressing gown around his shoulders, not really bothering to dress anymore than that, and walked out of the bedroom and into the lounge, where, as deduced, John sat on the sofa in front of the telly, hunched over and grasping that stupid PlayStation controller like it had the answers to life, the universe and everything. 

‘John?’ he asked and received a hum in lieu of an answer, which made him all the more annoyed. Ever since John had purchased this… video game, he had been almost addicted, every free moment he had went on playing those stupid games with terribly dull plot lines (Sherlock had Googled “Skyrim” and the premise alone was enough to make him nearly roll his eyes out of their sockets). He became inattentive and unresponsive, and frankly. Sherlock now understood John’s complaints about him when he was in one of his “moods”. Though, in Sherlock’s favour, he never killed innocent bystanders, piled them up in the middle of the village and set them on fire during his moods, unlike John… well, unlike his character anyway. 

He barely spoke as well when he was playing, usually keeping silent or muttering angrily at himself. Occasionally, Sherlock would hear him scream “NO YOU IDIOT FASTER!” or “I will rip your throat out you fucking arsehole”, and in those instances John would be standing up, pressing the buttons on the controller harder as if that would make his gameplay more effective. It was ridiculous. 

And Sherlock was tired of it. As the stood on the threshold, watching John and silently seething with anger, Sherlock began formulating a plan to stop John from playing that ridiculous game. 

‘John,’ he called again, and again he was ignored. Sherlock walked over to where he was sitting and looked down. He poked John on the head trying to get his attention again. ‘John.’ 

‘What,’ John asked absent-mindedly, pressing the buttons on the controllers a bit more forcefully, making his character (was that an Elf? Sherlock didn’t know) draw his weapon and kill what looked like a merchant. Such a vicious game, and there was no point to it. Sherlock sighed in resignation and decided to go make himself some tea. 

When he reached the kettle and an idea hit him like a pile of bricks. _Obvious_ , _obvious_. Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? 

The tea forgotten, Sherlock walked back to the living room, walking slowly, assuming his role. His hips swayed from side to side, slow, languorous, the way John liked. He approached his game-playing boyfriend calmly, confident that his plan would work. 

John growled from where he sat, clearly annoyed at what his Elf-character-person was doing, and adjusted himself on the seat to get more comfortable. He was only wearing loose tartan boxer shorts and an old white T-shirt, which Sherlock himself borrowed from time to time to sleep. His hair was a bit tousled from working long hours without combing it, and on his cheeks there was a sparse blond stubble. He looked warm and comfortable like he always did in the mornings, and Sherlock wanted to pull him close and take him right there, video game be damned. 

He sat next to John on the sofa, close by, their thighs touched, and Sherlock draped his arm around John’s middle. He nuzzled John’s neck, placing light kisses on his jaw and then a lovebite on where his jaw met his neck. John grumbled and shrugged his shoulder trying to get Sherlock to leave. 

‘Sherlock, I’m busy,’ he said in annoyance. 

‘You are playing a video game, John — hardly what I would call “busy”,’ Sherlock explained, continuing with his ministrations on John’s neck. He trailed a hand underneath John’s shirt and started rubbing gentle circles on his back, then drew the length of John’s spine with his fingers, tracing the outline of the bones. A moan escaped from John’s throat, and yet he still resisted, eyes always focused on his game. 

‘Sherl—‘ John tried to say, but Sherlock was too preoccupied nuzzling John’s ear, biting his earlobe lightly, using his tongue to tease him in the most delicious of ways. John faltered, pressed a wrong button and someone screamed on the screen. Sherlock looked up as John tensed. Apparently his character had died. 

They were quiet for two beats. Then John turned to face him. Expecting to be yelled at, Sherlock braced for reprimand. Instead, John nearly pounced forward, capturing Sherlock’s lips in his, frantic, nearly desperate, and then fell backwards on the sofa. 

Sherlock moaned as John thoroughly explored his mouth with his tongues and lips and teeth. John bit his bottom lip hard enough to elicit a loud whimper from Sherlock but not enough to break the skin, and then sucked at it, gently, lovingly, and Sherlock nearly came undone right there. After weeks of almost nothing, having to share John with the stupid video game, his boyfriend’s attention was all on him and the it was glorious. 

John’s hands skirted downwards, making their way under Sherlock’s shirt and pulling them up, up, and off. It took all of twenty seconds for the both of them to lose the rest of their clothing — soon they lay bare on the sofa, flushed chest against flushed chest; thighs tangled and feet curling together; cocks hardening in unison. Sherlock sighed deeply with a small smile on his lips as he felt John’s lips trail a wet path from his jaw to his earlobe, and as their already halfway down to hard cocks pressed together languidly, lazily, perfectly. He could never get over the feeling of John pressed agains him. John was always warm, always smelling of that cologne that was clearly made for older men but which made him seem just that much more _John_ ; he was always soft and comfortable, even though his muscles were lean and his thighs were strong, Sherlock felt the most comfortable when leaning against John’s chest or lap or draped across his back; and like this, in the throes of passion, in the heat of their bodies mingling together, John was almost pliant, all his, smelling of cologne and sweat and Sherlock a little bit. It was heaven. 

‘Hm, I missed you,’ murmured John as he sucked lightly on Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock had been focusing on letting his hands explore the expanse of John’s back and allowed himself a smile. 

‘Well, you’ve been playing that game for weeks. I have been here the whole time, you know,’ he said. Sherlock felt John tense up and immediately regretted having said anything. John propped himself up on his forearms to look at Sherlock’s face. He had a resigned smile on his face, eyes apologetic as Sherlock had ever seen them. 

‘I know, I’m sorry. The past few weeks have been so busy at the hospital, and I just needed something mindless to do to take my mind off everything. Sorry I neglected you, though, it was awful of me.’ 

Sherlock sighed. He brought a hand up to John’s face and stroke his cheek. ‘I know something else that can take your mind off the hospital,’ he whispered as if he were sharing a secret between them. The flat as quiet now, like a bubble had been created around them and not a sound could penetrate it, not even from the streets or the flat below. John grinned. 

‘What do you have in mind?’ 

With a smirk and a swift movement, Sherlock flipped them over on the sofa and stood stop John on all fours. John’s face of surprise was priceless as Sherlock began pressing gentle kisses on his shoulders and collarbones, downwards on his chest and mouthing a nipple lightly, which caused John to moan in the most delightful way. 

And down he went, until he was close enough to nuzzle the blond hair on John’s crotch, which was still soft and warm from the shower he’d taken when he got home. He smelt of soap and a tiny bit of sweat from sitting down in the same position for hours and of John, which was the indescribable scent that Sherlock could recognise from a ten feet away and which never failed to give him tingles all over. And there it was: John’s penis, proud and hard and already leaking. Sherlock grinned and pressed his lips against it, making John groaned again, exquisitely. He folded himself between John’s legs, one hand on his own penis, and started mouthing at John’s the way he liked it, slowly and wetly. It was decadent and luxurious because none of them had anywhere to be and time was theirs. The universe was theirs. With John’s taste on his tongue and John’s presence all around him, Sherlock felt cosy and detached from the world, just _here_ and _now_ , and oh God John made the most brilliant noises when Sherlock licked him _just there_. 

‘Oh, God, Sherlock,’ John moaned, then whimpered, then let out a soft cry when Sherlock nipped at the head and took him fully in his mouth. Because of his gag reflex, Sherlock couldn’t take him in fully, but it was still enough to get John to make the most delectable noises. John was already writhing underneath him, holding Sherlock’s hair and pulling at it gently yet with the exact amount of force that got Sherlock to work on himself faster. 

‘I’m… I’m about to—’ John panted as he pulled Sherlock’s hair a bit harder as warning. Sherlock’s right hand was pumping himself fast by now, and he was already wet all over and was set off as soon as John all but exploded in his mouth, coming down his throat.

They both lay there, helpless, breathless, spineless. Sherlock with his head resting on John’s left thigh, and John splayed out on the sofa, one arm thrown above his head and the other resting on his side as he petted Sherlock’s head lovingly. A few minutes later, Sherlock managed to muster enough strength to drag himself up and lie on top of John. 

‘Humpf, you’re heavy,’ John chuckled, then circled Sherlock in his arms and squeezed him. Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss on John’s cheek. ‘Do you want to go to bed?’ 

‘I don’t want to move. Ever.’ 

John laughed and nodded. He reached behind Sherlock, pulled the blanket from the sofa and covered them both with it, then settled in a bit more comfortably with Sherlock on top of himself. ‘Fair enough. Sleep, though.’ 

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock hummed as he nestled himself on John’s chest and closed his eyes. John’s warmth filled him and enveloped him, and all he wanted was to sleep forever like this. So he hugged John tighter and let himself drift off.

The TV shut off by itself about twenty minutes later. 

And Sherlock made sure that John never had the chance to play that stupid game when he was around ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really busy with uni/having a life (surprisingly enough!) lately, so I am working through the prompt submissions slowly. However, I do still welcome them, so feel free to drop by my [ask box](http://writingquill.tumblr.com/ask) if you like. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! And please let me know what you think :3
> 
> x


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